Gallup - April 23

Driving on a spare that I knew had a limited life span, I began to search for the next town to change out my tire. Entering into New Mexico I quickly came upon a little town called Gallup that happened to house the largest Indian reservation in the world, and was the largest Navajo reservation in the land.

Now please take what follows with a grain of salt: I full well know that this was only one day and one limited experience, and in no way can I ever truly KNOW what it feels like to be prejudiced against, ignored, shunned, or made to feel anything less than worthy due to my color of skin on a daily basis, but I at least now have the perspective.

Walking into the Pep Boys - chosen for its reputation as a franchise over a local, referred tire shop - I stood by the counter waiting patiently to be helped. What followed was an experience that opened my eyes.

I now know what a black man feels like. The level of purposeful neglect was unbelievable, and unexpected. I felt like I was being judged as if I had actually participated in the decision, creation, and acceptance of the reservations.

Ignored in favor of natives who walked right past me as if I did not exist, I finally had to stand gut to the counter and ask loudly for assistance. The first employee looked at me with a level of dislike normally reserved for in-laws and passed me on to a kid who was probably only 20 but was trying really hard to look important and 30, his uniform crisp and sharp and a self created air of importance surrounding him.

Talking to me as though I were wasting his time, he told me to pull my car around the back and that someone would help me shortly. Obediently following his instructions, in complete ignorance to the anger directed towards me, I pulled in front of an open bay one, "Tires" boldly written across in red letters contrasted against the white building.

For 15 minutes I waited as I watched and chatted briefly with a 16 year old who, though obviously working in this bay, had nothing better to do but come out periodically to look quizzically at Bessie, ask a couple of questions and walk away. Finally, after his third visit, I asked if he had any plans to fix my tire and he tilted his head sideways and peered at me as though I was growing a second head.

He then asked me for my work order and I shot him back the same look.

"Work Order?"

"Yeah, work order. If you don't have a work order I cannot do anything."

"But you're NOT doing anything." My obvious frustration seeping into this conversation.

"Can't do anything without one, you have to go back inside and get one."

By now I realized I had been duped and made my way back to the counter, this time helped by a managerial looking middle aged man who, though his apparel and balding head spoke to knowledge, his flustered speak and stacks of paper warned me that I was in for a long day.

Explaining my situation he took my name and keys and told me someone would get right on it. I begrudgingly made my way back to Bessie figuring that I could at least use this time to clean out the various piles of paper and bags of garbage that had accumulated over the past few days.

Something about me hanging out in the van - perhaps the assumption being that I did not trust them - continued the day on even further unsure footing. 30 minutes after pulling Bessie around back, the same kid who had sent me off without a work order came trudging over to Bessie and hopped in, shooting me a look of "fuck off" as he did, his air of importance lessened as he now knew I knew he was nothing but a shop mechanic, his crisp uniform the product of the start of his shift and nothing less.

Grinding her gears he struggled to find reverse and, not wanting to have to replace a gear box in addition to a tire, I calmly walked over and explained it that you had to push down first before up in order to get her into gear. Without so much as a grunt of acknowledgment he slammed her into reverse and drove off to another bay.

Instead of waiting inside I chose to sit out in the sun, as much to offer any help on figuring out Bessie's quirks as to enjoy the rays offered up from an infrequent visitor to my native Oregon. Looking back I think that they thought I was again watching over them, their distrust or anger not allowing them to see me leaning back to enjoy the warmth.

The whole time in Gallup one local was friendly to me, a woman of about 25 who, while walking by with her friend obediently in tow, asked me if my car was in the shop and, upon hearing that it was, warned me that I would be there for awhile. I spent the next 30 minutes pondering this a bit until she came back out and told me that my fair skin needed to get out of the sun, reminding me again of the wait I was in for. Explaining that I was from Oregon and seldom saw the glowing orb and wanted to soak up as much of its rays as possible, she laughed at me, shaking her head as she and her friend walked off.

I guess I really should have paid more attention to her as two and a half hours later Bessie was finally finished. Granted, I did have them take care of the rear alignment issue as well, the cause for the tear, but I could not believe the extent of the delay and by this time had given up caring.

Walking back in I paid for the work, my mouth shut except to answer questions, my fear being that should I open my mouth my true opinions would come flying out. Hopping back into Bessie I drove off back towards the 40, a newfound buzzing ringing in my ears.

It turns out the buzzing wasn't from the headache and I searched high and low on my steering column for its origin. Finally pulling over I took apart part of the dash and finally located a little piece of paper left as a gift, a parting reminder of their love for me and my kind.

Driving a little further I looked to see how far out of Gallup I was, to see if it was worth it for me to turn around and give them a piece of my mind, and noticed my odometer wasn't working, the product of a severed speedometer cable. Another gift. Boy do I feel blessed.

The tire fiasco - April 22

With the flub, flub, flub of a problematic unknown emanating from the rear of Bessie, I looked for a place to pull over only to find that the next exit was 10 miles away and the shoulder was non-existent. Inching her along the highway, cursing at anyone and anything, I finally exited up a ramp to semi-level shoulder on the opposite entrance ramp and set about to find out what was wrong.

Walking back to the rear tire I saw nothing that would cause the noise until I ran my hand along its entirety. Smooth, treaded tire gave way to a foot and a half long by two inch wide tear all the way down to the steel belt.

By now it was somewhat funny, I mean, EVERY day? Sometimes ALL day? What had I done in this life or a previous one to deserve this? Angry at God, angry at life, angry at this trip, I set about doing the only thing I could, changing out the tire.

When buying the van one of the selling points was the overabundance of tools and equipment that came with her. Leaving the house I knew that I had everything I needed but, upon taking it all out, I found that one really important piece was missing, the tool necessary to remove the hub caps...

I tried everything, kicked at it and swore at it, until I finally grabbed my hatchet, some damage to inflict the only thing on my mind. Thankfully, right before I took the first swing, I realized that I could use the edge of the blade as a pivot point and the heel for leverage. Giving it a good whack, the hub came flying off.

Turns out the lug nuts were rusted on (another little tidbit I have learned, always check your lugs before leaving, use WD40 if they are rusted) and it took every ounce of my leg and arm strength to loosen them. Again cursing up a storm (I think I must have been a sailor in previous life), I started to jack her up only to find that the jack that came with her was 2" too short. I tried every possible, jackable point but nope, each one was too short. To make matters worse, three truckers rolled right on by and not even one stopped to ask if they could help or offer up their hydraulic jack.

By now it had truly become funny and I could not help but look up and say "Ok. Forget it. I won't ask for any more favors."

Out of divine intervention or blind luck I realized that my mom had given me a book before I left, "1000 things to see and do in the US and Canada before you die", that happened to be 2 and a half inches thick. Using the book for a purpose other than its intent I was able to free the tire just enough to remove it and replace it with my old, worn spare.

It felt good to have accomplished it all and the beautiful blazen red and orange sunset made for a fitting end to the evening, too bad it would all start over again tomorrow.

The last four days - May 17 - 20

It seems all I have been doing the last few days is driving.

Once out of New Mexico, just East of the border into Texas, the terrain flattened out and hasn't hit a bump since. Sure, they have some mountains here, though I think anyone who has stepped foot anywhere West of Colorado can tell you that their mountains are more hills, and small ones at that.

I have driven through the dry and the heat of Texas, never straying any further south than hwy 40 - my goal to make it through this dusty land as fast as possible - and headed north into Oklahoma and Kansas, the lower 48 in their entirety driving me.

While it is true I stepped foot in Kansas, I have a hard time saying I have really seen the state as I hit a point 10 miles north of the border and U-turned it southeast back towards Oklahoma. When you can look straight ahead and see nothing in front of you but grass, cows, clouds, and the horizon, you know that it is time to head for something a little more scenic.

All the days have seemingly melded together, much like the landscape - if there weren't convenient little state signs I would have no idea where one began and one ended. I cannot fully recall where I have been, or at least not in what order. I recall various camping spots, can tell you what I have seen and what was special about each, but I cannot fully recollect the when of it all.

I wish I could say it was due to the drink or the drugs, but neither I have had so I have to blame it on the mind and its prediliction to wander. I have had so much time to think but have found that worry occupies most of my time.

The worry centers mainly about Bessie - being a Westy she loves to act up and, seemingly no matter how much money I pour into the gas tank and its various fuel line components, she still wants to have fits. So I'll let her. She and I have come to an understanding finally - I won't fret so much about the lugs and bumps, knocks and pings, and in turn I won't ride the accelerator so hard nor push her so far each day.

This of course brings me, in a round about way, to my other focal point of worry: why am I here? Not the cosmic what is my life about (though, with all of my other thoughts and posts I am sure that is where most of you went) rather, why am I headed to all 48 states? What is driving me to take on a task that is maddening in pace and long on solitude?

I know the goal was to see the country in its entirety - even if that does mean one small step in certain areas - and to witness what separates and makes unique each part of this country, but I have found that this has started to defeat the original purpose of my trip.

To get away, to RELAX, and to think - about me, about my father, about my direction for this life - these are what propelled me on this journey in the first place but they are things that I have had little time to focus on as I am more hell bent on fitting everything in, dashing for each state to say I did it rather than enjoying the ones I am in.

And so I am beginning to think that maybe I will head back West, to all of the parks I have missed in my Easterly dash. This will shorten the trip's distance, but there is no plan to alter the time frame.

Perhaps it is longing for the comforts of home, or perhaps we truly appreciate what we have left behind, but I have found that the West has so much to offer, maybe I should spend more time appreciating.

Petrified National Forest - April 22

No matter how nasty the bed is, sleeping on an actual mattress and covered by real sheets does wonders for the mood; the ability to take a shower, especially one after waking up from said nasty bed, just enhances the goodness.

Leaving Flagstaff, I headed East for Petrified National Forest, my mind wandering to the journey ahead and the days behind. Texting hellos and talking about the day before me with Katie, I was finally relaxed and happy again and, an hour into the drive, I decided to stop in at Wal-Mart for some odds and ends that I had neglected to purchase earlier.

Walking into the store in Two Guns, AZ it was interesting to see how the local's eyes glanced my way and grew big in fits of wonderment or amusement. Perhaps it was my Nike attire, soccer short and Dri-fits my daily wear, or perhaps it was my city boy amble, but the locals kept glancing in my direction, their attention diverted away from their weekly shopping trip for a brief moment.

The looks directed my way harbored no anger, nor did they have any semblance of hostility rather, I felt the way a B-movie celebrity would feel, the averted eyes and whispers carrying just far enough to catch my ears and telling me I was the focal point of that moment.

Before entering into this enclave of ranchers, I had sent a picture message to Katie and had placed my phone in my cart with the hope of receiving a reciprocal picture back. Throughout the 30 minute walk around the store - my goal to buy groceries, hats, and sunglasses - my phone remained mute, not a ring or beep out of it until I hit the checkout line and was mid conversation with the middle aged, slightly overweight Indian lady so obviously underjoyed to be working at WalMart.

The screen flashed a message that I only caught a glimpse of, something about "failure to send due to insufficient memory", and I set my course for Bessie, my newly purchased fedora protecting my badly burned scalp from future damage. I needed to delete all of the old messages from my phone's Inbox and set about typing in the request. While waiting for the phone to finish its short and simple task, I began to tidy up the mess of books and clothing that had shifted and fallen during my travels over hills and around windy bends.

Picking up my phone to check my messages after a few minutes of cleaning, I was confused to find that it was turned off. Pressing the power button, the phone fired up slowly and I was presented with only partial control: though I could see the screen and scroll through my menu, it would not allow me access to any messages or calls.

Just like that it was dead. No outgoing or incoming calls; no texts or any kind; nothing. Angry again at the world, God received my wrath, my mouth spewing forth curse words at a rate an auctioneer would find difficult to follow. By now, after the past few challenges that were my previous two days, I was angry at God, wondering why He chose to challenge me so. How was it that so many little choices could go so awry, so many seemingly simple tasks could be made so difficult? How could a brand new phone, my only means of true communication and safety net should something truly go amiss, just die?

The question has arisen, from various sources, as to what my rationale for questioning and blaming God during all of this is. To answer this question is a task that deserves, and will receive, its own post later. For now, I will attempt to summate my thoughts so that any of your personal anger or amusement over my words may hopefully be dissipated, even if only slightly.

Over the past four or five years of my life I have become aware of a feeling that I have a larger purpose in this life than my current existence and that I am being led to find this true path by signs that are sometimes easy to see and sometimes so difficult that they are overlooked. It is through this feeling, no matter how misguided, that I have chosen to let fate be my guide during this journey. In trusting fate I was trusting that things would work out without realizing my own role in their workings. It is from this lack of knowledge of my part that I am angry and lost and therefore blaming.

Just East of Petrified Forest, driving in anger and desperately trying to fix my phone with every trick my frantically spinning mind could conjure, all the while intermittently questioning and cursing God's role in this, I heard the flub, flub, flub noises associated with a flat tire emanating from the rear of Bessie.

Looking out my side mirrors I saw nothing to indicate a flat and pulled cautiously into the Park. Heading directly into the first turn off I pulled out my lap top and wireless card and immediately went on-line to see if Katie was on Facebook so I could explain why I had so mysteriously vanished.

Not finding her on-line I left the Facebook tab open and opened my Hotmail account to send an e-mail when I heard the "ding" of an opened chat window. Clicking back over I saw that Erin, my assistant soccer coach from CV, was on-line and saying hello.

Erin's sweet nature is enhanced by her beauty and intelligence, she is truly one of the kindest people walking this planet. I coached her six years ago when she was a shy, non-conforming member of an OUSA team whose 16 year old members attempted daily to exhibit more knowledge about soccer than their coaches. She and I became friends when she joined CV's staff to coach her sister - a difficult choice being that her playing days were spent on the dark side at CHS. She enjoyed the experience so much she has stuck around for the past two seasons, alternating in her role as coach and team mom.

Seeing that I was on-line and curious as to how I could spend so much time connected to the web while away from most electricity, she was checking in to ask about my trip. Knowing that she and Katie were friends and surmising that she had a phone that worked, my quickly typed words must have practically begged her to make a call I couldn't.

Immediately sensing my frustration she set about calling Katie and I was quickly rewarded with the ding of a new chat window opening. Seeing my errors in typing and the speed of my writing, Katie could tell that I was angry and calmly told me to slow down.

Again, the familiarity of voice, even if over a computer screen, calmed my rambling mind and she was able to talk me down again, her mix of genuine concern and humor eliciting a smile from me within minutes. Feeling the tension slowly ebbing from my body, not fully gone but me no longer wanting to kill anyone, I thanked Katie for her patience and told her I loved her, my mind now capable of settling back into an attempt at relaxation.

Contemplating life again, I put up my blog address in 2" white letters purchased from Wal-Mart on the back of Bessie and sat back down on my rear bench to read about the Forest and find a camping spot. Unfortunately, but somewhat expected after the past few days, I found that the Park offered no overnight campground ammenities and would be closing within the hour.

My plan to spend the night camped in Bessie shot, I again headed East, my goal to shorten the distance between me and Albuquerque. Back out on the road I was focused on the drive ahead, half cursing my existence, half relaxed from the words of calm instilled by a kindred spirit when I again noticed the consistent flub, flub, flubbing of something seriously wrong coming from Bessie.

The longest day - april 21

Roused by the sun's warmth beating through my curtains, my dreams of crawling bedsheets were interrupted at an hour normally reserved for military personnel and I stepped outside to a shimmering, completely still river. Like a slate wiped clean, the ugliness of the night before had vanished with the dark to be replaced by a scene of pure beauty.

Reflecting on the night I found solace in my thoughts. I was thankful that, though hellish, the flies were not mosquitos; the tearing of skin, though bloody, elicited no pain and I was prepared with an arsenal of band-aids and ointment - gifts from a thoughtful five year old concerned about my well being; and, though nasty the night before, no bugs roused me from my slumber nor were waiting to greet me in the morning.

The campground's store being closed, I left without buying a bumper sticker for my desired collage and ventured towards Hoover dam. The dam itself did not call me, but a sense of guilt at being so close to one of America's marvels of engineering propelled me down the highway.

My wheels' vibrations echoed off the canyon walls as I weaved my way to down to the dam and I found myself awed more by the towering buttresses of cable and concrete slowly becoming the new highway bypass than the dam itself.

Hoover dam turned out to be much smaller than I imagined, the picturesque filmmaking of Transformers obviously skewing my sense of size. I had envisioned a quarter mile stretch of concrete, towering over a river below, but was sad to see what felt like a minituarized version, worthy more of a train set than in American folklore.

My camera's memory card near full I ventured back across the dam, marveling at the high water line so vibrantly contrast in white against the dark cliff walls, and drove into Arizona. Pulling into a parking lot buttressed against a hill of stone, I set about taking a picture of the "Welcome to Arizona" sign to add to my collection. Sitting there fumbling for my camera I was approached by an elderly couple looking for a coat hanger. Struck by the seemingly randomness of this request, I stammered for an answer until I recalled the vehicle I was in.

Though all cultures have many different traditions, locking your keys in your car is definitely a worldly phenomenon. The elderly couple had been searching for the coat hanger to help a wide-eyed Chinese couple from Shanghai that had accidentally left their keys in their late model Mustang while out taking pictures.

I used my AT&T wireless card to find a locksmith in Boulder City, a trick of technology that surprisingly amazed the Chinese (it seems I am not knowledgeable about what is available in China). A quick call and a $100 quote spoke to the greedy nature of businesses praying on tourists and the couple instead chose to try their luck with their car company, Hertz, in hopes they had a service for this type of ordeal.
Leaving them to voluntarily fend for themselves, a handshake of thanks and a 'good luck' waved out the window, I headed Bessie in the direction of the 350 mile drive to the Grand Canyon.

Coming to the intersect of Highways 40 and 66 I was forced to make a quick decision between a seemingly more and more common choice: do I take the route of speed and stay on 40 or do I veer off into the history of one of the most well know Highways in the land and choose 66? Indecisive, and oddly feeling like a 'meant to be moment' was imminent, I flipped a coin: Heads practicality, Tails history.

Within miles of passing the turnoff for 66, and countless cars zooming by, I longed for the slower pace of a less used highway and pulled over to see if I could find a connecting road. Perhaps the 'meant to be moment' came when I noticed my oil light on and realized that Bessie needed sustenance.

My research turned up a little connecting road off of highway 93 just a short jaunt south of the 40; the only hesitation was that the atlas did not show what type of road this connector was. Being that this was my only means of getting back to 66 without backtracking 15 miles, I pulled off of the 40 for what I thought was a couple mile drive south. Ten minutes later, and hardly a turn in sight, I decided to back track instead of continuing on and looked for the next available turn.

As luck or intervention would have it, the turnoff I chose proved to be paved. Sensing something, I pointed Bessie's nose north and drove off. Within a few miles the pavement began to give way to dirt, the dust and sand from the desert lining either side obviously blown by a constant wind. Within eight miles the dust and dirt had completely taken over and the road was no longer a road, rather it had become a dirt trail rife with dust, cattle, and the guards necessary to keep the livestock from roaming too far from their owners.

Worrying that Bessie would die out here in the middle of the desert, and not having seen a car or person for miles, my mind began to conjure all of the worst case scenarios it could muster. I again realized that I was living my life in fear and, angry at myself and at God again for this turn of events, I yelled as loud as I could five times out the window and decided to stay the course, my outburst of emotion calming my mind for the moment.

Perhaps intervention and luck are the same, either way my guess proved right and I arrived at 66, car dusty and heart aflutter with the giddiness of another adventure overcome. Turning East I soon came upon a middle aged man in search of a ride jogging to the side of the road from his old Mercedes. Picking him up, he introduced himself as Bob Gerschweitz and told me he was headed back to Peach Springs, a little town 15 miles up the road.

As soon as I set the car in motion Bob's mouth began to match the pace of the engine and he weaved tale upon tale about the land around us. Proudly professing to be the only white man on the reservation, I felt obliged to ask him how a member of the Gerschweitz clan ended up here in the middle of the desert on Indian land, but decided that his tales were far too entertaining and instead relaxed down into my seat to listen.

A couple of miles into the drive we saw the flashing lights of police cars ahead and feared a driver had fallen asleep at the wheel and crashed. It turns out we had come upon an Indian relay honoring the "Trail of Tears" and we passed members of local tribes lined up every quarter mile on the street's edge ready to take their part in the ceremonial relay. Gauging off of what I could see it looked like each member's part was to carry for a quarter mile an honorary flame as a symbolic gesture to all those that had suffered along the journey that brought them to this place.

Being that Bob's stories never ended it did not surprise me to hear him profess that he knew all of the kids in the relay. Sticking his head out the window every 30 seconds to yell a hello he then popped back in to let me know what student, relative, or friend's kid was standing on the side of the road. His lack of knowledge about the relay's set up, as well as the lack of response from most of the kids he yelled at, made me wonder about the validity of his statement, but I again let him weave his tales, the entertainment value far too great.

Pulling into Peach Springs, a tiny town that he claimed his father had once owned half of, I let him out with a thanks and a handshake. I noticed the ceremonial potluck, celebrating the end of the relay, and wanted to stay as the locals were dressed in the traditional garb more native to a time long ago. But, with no real offer of invite, save for from the mouth of a man seemingly so out of place, I instead continued on towards the Grand Canyon.

Many hours and countless miles later I pulled up to the south rim's gate and was greeted by an overzealous park ranger who obviously was bored and wanted to chat. Politely bantering back and forth, I quickly found my National Parks Annual Pass and sped along my merry way to the south rim, his questions and comments trailing off behind me.

Parking in a prime spot right next to an overlook, I stepped out and headed for the canyon's edge. No more than 10 steps into my journey I was approached by the same balding, plaid shirted elderly gentleman who had earlier asked me for a coat hanger. We walked over to his wife, a lovely, short little plump lady who's high pitched voice gave her comments a cartoonish flair and their 30 year old son who looked comfortable tagging along with his parents for Spring break but, probably only because he knew it made them happy.

We began to chat about the craziness of timing and I inquired as to their home, her shrill voice carrying a distinctive southern twang. Finding out that they were from Tennessee and knowing that I would be headed that way with absolutely no knowledge of what I was in for, I asked them for any suggestions. After countless answers, and in a genuine gesture of kindness, he handed me his business card and told me to call when I had reached that far East.

Thanking them and wishing them well on their journey home, I stepped out onto the canyon's edge and I was stopped in my tracks by the unbelievable views of towering cliffs of red, white and vibrant orange carved over the ages by the lonely river far below.

I had visited the Grand Canyon once when I was 14 but was more caught up in a revenge plot - the product of a fistfight the day before my family's vacation with an oversized, friendless oaf - and did not recall any of this beauty. Words cannot describe, nor can pictures adequately portray, the grandness and vast power spread out before me in so many colors.

Ambling away from the rim, my mind still processing the images etched into my eyes, I set off to embark on my journey to the Park's campsite a few miles away and ran smack into the Chinese couple I had attempted to help at Hoover. Wide-eyed for a different reason, their awe at what was spread out before them obvious, we stopped to talk and they filled me in on the friendliness of the Hoover dam police and their amazing door opening toys, and we took pictures of each other to commemorate the day.

While holding this conversation I could not help but wonder about the workings of the world. How is it that with 350 miles of distance and starting times from Hoover at least two hours apart (not to mention the six hours of driving and many side trips and roads we invariably all took), multiplied by the Grand Canyon's ample number of places to view the vastness, did I run into not only the elderly couple, but the Chinese couple as well, all within a 20 minute window of time?

Lost in thought, I started Bessie up and backed her out of her spot, accidentally shifting her into third. Gassing it when I felt her lug, she died on me and started to roll down the parking lot's hill, my furious attempts at starting her back up failing.

Finally coming to rest in front of the only open spot in the entire lot, I was honked at and then sympathized with as car after car drove past and saw me struggling against my rage. Knowing that I flooded her, Bessie's 28 years coupled with the low oxygen content of a higher elevation making for a difficult ignition, I called Katie. My frustration was obvious and she quickly set about talking me down.

There is something about a voice of familiarity and reason that soothes, and within seconds I was able to forget about my misfortune and just fell into talking. 20 minutes later the gas had settled and I fired her back up, finally able to clear the parking lot of Bessie's bulk.

My plan was to stay that night at the Grand Canyon's campground but the $18 charge to sleep in my van pushed me on. I drove south towards Williams recalling a beautiful looking campground in Kaibab National Park and set my sights on a night amongst the pines.

Pulling in amongst the trees I came to a lake as brown as chocolate and envied the people fishing as they looked as though stress was something that gauged fishing line durability rather than patience. Wanting desperately to stay here and hoping to learn some techniques of relaxation, I drove around only to find every campsite closed. It seems that the Arizona Parks department, in its infinite wisdom, had their parks closed for the season, even when the mercury pushes 80 degrees.

Weary after another long day, filled again with more driving than relaxing, I pushed on the additional 25 miles to Flagstaff and pulled into a Motel 6, the thought of a real bed and actual shower sounding like the only fix for my tense body.

Stepping into my room on the second floor I was flooded with images of shady drug deals and hourly rates and almost chose to crawl back into Bessie for the night. Knowing I could shower and charge my phone and computer, I decided to stay and treated myself (if clogging one's arteries can be considered a treat) to a dinner of Burger King - though stress again befell me as I had to worry about a spitter, the HS aged kids cooking my meal looked bored and laughed as I took the bag.

Exhausted and worn, I shuffled off to the shower and let the warm water wash away the dirt and grime from three days of hiking and travel. Watching it wash down the drain, I was struck with the oddity that had been my day. Filled with moments of pure joy as well as absolute frustration I longed for ease of travel and prayed the next day would grant it to me.

The beginning of the end - april 20

Having pushed my body past its comfort zone, my soul felt invigorated and my mind awake to the possibilities of this trip. Aiming Bessie north towards Hoover Dam out of twinge of patriotism I planned on camping around Lake Mead until a billboard touting $20 rooms in Laughlin, NV caught my eye. The chance for a cheap bed - and the opportunity to add Nevada to the growing state sticker collection adorning Bessie's rear driver side window - drew me to the small town tucked in the farthest southeast corner of Nevada, just a short jaunt across the river from Arizona.

Laughlin turned out to be much like the whole of Nevada, nothing but casinos and dirt - it seems that mining for silver and gambling away your daily find is the Nevada way - and I decided to push on with my original plan. Turns out expectations can warp your perception of reality pretty easily.

Missing a non-existent campground just outside of the infestation of casinos - my Rand McNally atlas' strength lying in arterials and not side roads - I pushed north for a campground called Temple Bar which, with its proximity to Lake Mead, brought forth images of white sandy beaches and peaceful rests.

Driving all day can be torturous; I have seen more desolate, open expanses of desert housing sad little towns than I care to ever lay eyes upon again. The saddest part of this existence is that these are not structured towns, just dirt roads with the possibility of indoor plumbing sprouting from the open desert. Though some of these towns were large enough to have their own fast food joint (note the singularity, grocery stores were a seemingly frivolous want) I wondered what type of person would call this existence home.

The debate waged over this existence is one of love versus drinking. The argument reasons that if you have someone you love it would surely make this lifestyle worthwhile - at least until the heat and the lack of anything to do but each other wore you out. If you didn't, your day would consist of work, picking up at least a half rack of beer, and drinking; only to wake up the next day to do it all over again.

My mind attempting to rationalize such a seemingly difficult life, I pulled off the highway for the 30 mile drive to Temple Bar. It turns out names can be incredibly misleading, a tidbit I have often heard but was drilled home when I found that the actual campground was a half mile from the beach and provided no view of the water. There was no Bar in sight - neither the watering hole necessary to cleanse my palate and wash the disgust from my mind, nor the soft, sandy beach necessary for lounging during times of contemplating how names are chosen.

Thankfully, a road once driven is often faster than one unknown, and I tore my way back to the highway for a short jaunt down some windy hills to another campground called Willow Beach. It turns out looks can be just as deceiving as names.

Pulling in as the sun was setting I found the perfect spot adjacent to the river. Clear and calm, the river looked as though it was posing for a postcard and the stars were just starting to twinkle, making the sky big and beautiful. I could feel the tension ebbing from me as I felt that the agony of that long ass drive was finally worth it.

Mind abuzz with the expected joys of a night spent star gazing, I set about preparing a dinner of rice and sausage. I hooked the lantern onto my canopy to fend off the oncoming dark, and within minutes the inside of my camper was teeming with hundreds of flies and moths hellbent on their own demise as they buzzed my light and fell in my dinner. Deciding that having the lantern outside would lessen the amount of unwanted protein dive-bombing my meal, I moved to relocate it to the curb and tripped over a pair of my shoes that I had senselessly placed in front of my sliding door and tore the skin off of three of the toes on my left foot.

During cleanup, and after the decapitation of a large beetle that fell from my pot of rice, I decided to move out of the streetlight's glare to a spot in a darker corner of the lot that some HS kids had recently vacated. Enveloped in the dark I again began to relax until my peripheral caught sight of the sand moving.

The beach was alive with roaming cockroaches just starting their ever present quest for scraps. Seeing the garbage cans to my left I flashed on the image of Will Smith in Men In Black and bee-lined it back to my original spot, my rationale being that the farther away I was from the source, the less likely the cockroaches' path would extend. It seems my rationales need some work as the cockroaches were seemingly endless in their hunt.

My mind again ran rampant and I feared cockroaches would infiltrate my van that night in search of food, procreate like mad, and eat everything in sight; leaving larvae everywhere they stepped.

I went to bed cursing God, more angry than I had been in years, visual and auditory hallucinations of scurrying little feet dancing through my mind. What was such an invigorating morning had turned into a challenge of another kind and my mind and soul's energy began to drain. I fell asleep, tired and bloody, my imagination conjuring images of insects as I struggled to understand the reasons for this night.

Living in fear - April 19 and 20

I have often struggled against my mind's desire to over-analyze every detail it can latch on to. This struggle has caused me far more pain than elation, and though I have tried to calm it through various remedies, as far back as I can remember I have always been bombarded with images of plane crashes, of giant spiders inhabiting my bed, and of broken bones from dastardly falls. It seems my imagination loves to conjure up thoughts of events so dire that I become focused on their remote possibility and forget to enjoy the view.

One of the main goals of this journey is to stop fearing the worst and start living in the moment so that I can see as events and beauty unfolds before me. I have found that if I focus on the laws of probability I am calmed, as my mind cannot dispute percentages.

It is with this perspective that I entered into Joshua Tree.

The sounds of campers setting off for day hikes through the trails of Cottonwood roused me from my sheets and I groggily stuffed my backpack to join them. Walking down the dusty path towards a grove of giant palms miraculously living off but a trickle of water, I was met with a sobering reminder of the true inhabitants of this valley. Placards illustrated how the Indians, much like their plant life counterparts, once carved - literally, as seen by the foot deep bean masher holes painstakingly worn into the granite - an existence out of this desolate rock before settlers killed them off or created a dependency to an unnatural drink before marching them through tears to reservations.

I believe that in one of my past lives I lived as an Indian and that my days were spent bounding over hills and boulders tracking after game. This would explain my love of straying from beaten paths and it was through this joy of climbing and exploring that I was led to the highest point within view, a 120 foot climb over boulder and cacti to a perfect sitting spot atop a blustery hill.

Listening to the gales atop this outcropping of rocks I found peace knowing I was sitting in a spot touched only by a few souls, where no intervention other than nature resides. Sadly, my battle with an innate need to constantly move raged, and I was off on a pedestrian 3 mile hike to Palm Oasis.

The trail's paths and cliffs were too small to warrant any real adrenaline rush and so I hoofed it back to Bessie and drove off through Joshua Tree in search of more challenging terrain. Rounding a corner I was amazed to witness heaps of boulders, some upwards of 300 feet, resting peacefully in little piles. It looked as though an inquisitive God had just spent hours collecting and piling rocks, stone piled upon stone, and placing them in beautifully balanced stacks. Their place amongst the desert sand and brush made it look like they had been forgotten about, some cosmic calamity drawing attention away from their beauty.

I stopped to climb twice, each climb attempting to boulder as high as possible while avoiding death. At one point I climbed 40 feet wedged between two rocks and propelled myself to a point that caused my whole body to experience the spin my head felt.

Climbing these boulders I was struck with realization that much of what I was doing was for validation that it was possible, that I was capable of things the average person was not. All my life I have attempted to prove my worth, and climbing between those two stones, wedged like a brace, inching my way up between 3 feet of separation and 40 feet of height, validated that worth a little.

After a peaceful late afternoon drive north on route 66 I arrived at Navajo National Preserve and Mitchell caverns and fast fell asleep.

Invigorated by the climb the day before I woke determined to continue along my path of self challenge. I knew I wanted to see the caverns that made this area famous but was informed by a kind, middle aged couple from the Yukon Territories - like me traveling the US to see what the country has to offer - that the hike was a "guide only" tour. Hearing this I decided instead to climb to Lost Springs Oasis, a mile and a half trail that cut steeply into the mountainside.

After a half an hour of hiking I came to an area of dense vegetation that I could only guess to have been the oasis and lowered myself in. The tree's limbs and thorny cacti grabbing at my shirt, I crossed over a seep to see the path vanish up the hill and, since no sign had told me of the trail's end, I decided that I would continue on.

Climbing over boulders and cacti, up cliffs and across little switchbacks, I came to a spot where the path's clarity ended and broke off in two directions. I had already climbed over 1500 feet of elevation but desired to reach the peak, and though the true path had vanished, my innate sense of trails led me upwards into the cliffs.

During my climb up I was able to stand over various outcroppings - their views opening up my mind to the country below - until I finally reached a point that necessitated a hard decision: to go on meant to risk death as, if I had fallen, I would have surely been killed - or at least died a slow death from a broken, unmovable body - or stop here, 300 feet from the summit and 2300 up, and fail in my quest.

I decided on the surety of life and half climbed, half fell back down the mountainside trying unsuccessfully to avoid the numerous cacti grabbing at my clothes and providing resting spots for my weary hands. Chatting with the ranger back at the campsite I was disheartened to learn that the summit held on it a ledger and, had I made it up that last cliff, I could have signed added name to an achievement a select few could claim to share.

Twice now I have chickened out in favor of safety.

It has dawned on me though that perhaps being able to tell a tale of failure is better than having a tale of accomplishment told about you posthumously. Perhaps fear is just the mind protecting itself. Or, perhaps it is okay to push yourself to whatever limit you feel is challenging enough to elicit growth and awareness.

Leaving San Diego - April 18

With knowledge of the purpose of my journey - to gain the confidence and the trust necessary to step away from all that is comfortable and known - I left my friends in San Diego for the unfamiliar terrain and populace that lay before me in the parts of the country I had never before laid eyes upon.

Perhaps it was because I had built a connection to something comfortable and easy back home, or perhaps it was that I really did not know what I was doing out here - on this lonely road, trying to find answers to questions I didn't even yet understand - but I had trouble letting go of my fears and doubts. I thought this journey necessitated my traveling alone, but the stops at friend's houses and the good company and laughs made me realize that perhaps this was a journey best shared, at least in part.

My mind consistently balked at the idea of a traveling companion as I was under the self created impression that this trip was best served with no distractions, as this would maximize my focus on the dilemma of what it was I wanted out of life. But, over time, I had begun to realize that being with friends is one of the things that truly makes me happy and is too often a missing aspect of my life.

At Kyle's suggestion Tim thought about tagging along over the next few days but wrestled with the short notice. He feared that, should his recruiter call or a job opportunity fall into his lap, leaving unprepared would not be in his best interest. I too was hesitant to have him come - though I could see the benefit of having someone other than my own mind to bounce ideas and conversation off of - as I was headed to Albuquerque to see Amberlee, one of my ex-players from Corvallis who had become one of my closest friends. I had not seen her in a year and a half and worried that Tim would not feel included, that his lack of knowledge to numerous inside jokes would leave him feeling like a third wheel.

So with my trepidation over having to entertain, and his own distrust of the employment process, we left the decision to fate, that fickle and unknown, unbiased perception that we hoped would provide us a solid choice. The flip of a coin was our decider, heads being his travel, tails being his fear.

Fate was fickle that day and we went into the final flip tied one to one. Flicking it into the air I misjudged its reentry and it fell to the ground clanging noisily on the driveway. It finally came to rest tails up and I was off, minus one indecisive passenger, headed east across the state of California, my destination Joshua Tree National Park, a refuge of rock and plant life more well known in the artwork of a U2 album than in its own true and natural beauty.

The drive East was both barren and beautiful, a desolate landscape of red and brown. The highways were lined with sand and rock interspersed with plant life attempting to carve out an existence from the scraggly ground, their lives dependent upon what little water is provided. It was obvious the model people of the area had chosen to follow as they too attempted to scratch out an existence from the seemingly lifeless soil as towns sprouted up out of nowhere and mobile homes far removed from any real road sat lifelessly in the middle of the desert. I could only imagine the existence, lonely and boring in my eyes, and was reinforced in this belief when I came upon a tree adorned with shoes, their laces tied together and flung over every possible branch in a rite of passage or out of sheer boredom.

The landscape lining the road just outside of Joshua Tree was rife with beauty and little dirt paths roaming off into hills provided access to unseen camping spots, but I decided to make my way all the way into the park, a desire to see for myself what made this place so beautiful pulling me along.

Entering the southern gate late that evening I set about looking for a place to sleep and drove a few miles north until I came to a full Cottonwood campground. Instead of fighting for what few spots remained elsewhere in the park I decided that I would drive to the Cottonwood trail lot and park for the night - this is one of the great perks about having a camper, you really can sleep anywhere.

The remaining few moments of daylight were spent nearby climbing rocks and investigating the plant and animal life around me; the beauty of the area was offset again by my fear of the unknown and I found myself praying all the while to not run into any tarantulas, as their hairy legs and massive bulk scare the crap out of me.

That night I climbed out my driver's side window and lay atop my camper just staring at the huge sky and its abundance of stars. Lost again in contemplation as to why I was here and the purpose of this whole journey I found myself wishing I had someone to share it all with, someone to make me comfortable again.

Getting lost in someone April 8-16

While I understood the reasons for my return - a need to clear my head, attend the wedding of an ex-player, and see Katie - flying back into Portland just eight days after starting a three month trip I felt a bit like a dog who had lost a fight, tail tucked sheepishly between my legs. I was just starting to understand the reasons behind my trip and was finally becoming more comfortable with Bessie and the thought of having to fix her on some deserted road no longer scared me to death.

Not having seen Katie in over a week, and our relationship being young and held loosely together by daily text messages and phone calls, I expected nerves to surface once the plane touched down on the tarmac. They never came as the knowledge that she was as excited to see me as I was her set my mind at ease and I was thankful that she had agreed to pick me up at the airport after her class.

Seeing her little white Corolla weave its way through traffic at the arrivals section of PDX, I wondered briefly the protocol for meeting her: was I supposed to give her a huge hug and kiss, did she want me to drive, what would be appropriate in terms of saying hello? She pulled her car over to the curb at my feet and I threw my gear in the back, hopped in the passenger seat, and gave her a kiss. Our lips lingering just long enough to express how much we had missed each other and to say hello but not long enough to cause an outburst of horn blasts from impatient and weary travelers.

We sped back to Corvallis, bouncing along joyfully on worn shocks over every bump, her lead foot seldom letting off of the accelerator. We talked easily of life and the trip, the conversation flowing without thought or pause. When we finally arrived I felt worn down, the long day of travel draining me and we bee lined for bed and drifted into a peaceful night's sleep wrapped tightly around each other.

Upon waking up I wondered if my fatigue may have been a coping mechanism from a conversation earlier in the week with my most current ex. While in San Francisco at Lewis and Kelly's, my ex and I had our first real conversation since a bitter breakup months earlier. Her telling me she missed me, while at the same time saying all was well in her life and current relationship, brought to the surface more emotions than I had expected and the remainder of my time in The City I found myself going over the relationship in my head. When I added into my thoughts the visit to another ex in Pasadena, I found that I had become focused on understanding what I had been a part of for so long instead of what was right in front of me.

This quickly changed during the week spent with Katie as the ease of our relationship and her ability to both challenge and calm me in the same conversation kindled a spark that grew daily. For the first time I could recall in a relationship I was able to work towards understanding instead of arguing. If something was amiss we did not immediately argue, instead we talked until we could understand where the other was coming from, if I had somewhere to go or someone to see she pushed me out the door instead of begging me to stay, when I questioned myself or came up with excuses she was there to ask me why and challenge my reasons and rationales.

Sleeping next to her was so cozy and easy, our bodies fit together like worn puzzle pieces, and being with her slowly became the most comfortable place in the world. I took her to Casey and Lisa's, as much to show her off as to get their opinion, all the while fearing that she would feel out of place or nervous, but she fit in like an old friend visiting again after a few years. It is comforting to see the person you want to spend all your time with completely at ease in their own skin and confident in who and where they are in their life.

We dined on steak and gorgonzola, Casey the cook using us as guinea pigs, and chatted the night away while entertained by their three daughters: Josie, Ava and Bella. Josie was a typical one year old, laughing and smiling and loving on mom and dad; Bella, their beautiful five year old, loved having new people to talk to and entertained herself by making us all laugh; Ava, three and not yet like her sister, finally worked past her angst over new people, and no longer stared in fear at Katie like a deer caught in headlights, and instead smiled and begged for her attention.

The true reason - or at least the one I had conveniently convinced myself of - for coming home was to attend Bri's wedding in Seattle, but a miscommunication in reference to an RVSP left me without a name card and therefore no seat at the wedding. Instead of standing around like a stalker in the back, the only guy without a seat, I left and drove north to my mom's house, stopping in Marysville at Jack in the Box for a cheeseburger dinner made and served by characters straight out of the movie Deliverance - whatever remaining teeth they possessed black as tar, both looking like a cross between brother and sister and lovers. Lamenting the fact that I missed out on lobster and steak in favor of food I prayed would not crunch when I bit into it, I drove in silence, wondering what had caused my current situation and left me driving in a tie and slacks without a party to go to.

Though I missed the wedding, the timing was great because I was home for Easter and could see my mom again. As well, I was able to see my brother and his family. This trip brought with it a pleasant surprise as mom is smiling again for the first time since dad's death, closer to happiness than I have seen her in two years, and can finally talk about dad without crying. This hurdle she has cleared is so amazing to witness, she has suffered through so much pain and sadness caused by the loss of her rock of 42 years so abruptly to pancreatic cancer.

It was great to see Pete and Jenn again and I learned that they are moving back to Japan in September. This decision makes both of them happy and ends a long standing argument of where to live as Washington never suited Jenn and both are used to the comforts of a home in the Far East. Their kids will enjoy living there as well as Mathew is now old enough to appreciate living abroad and Ethan is privy to happily follow along in Mathew's footsteps.

While the trip north was relaxing and invigorating, it was great to come back to Katie and I could feel the connection between us growing a little more each day. To realize the true extent of her character and how genuine of an individual she is was amazing; while she was intent on taking care of my every little need and want, it was done not to appease, rather it was a true desire of hers to see me happy. More importantly, while she wants to take care of me, she is also willing to understand that I desire to take care of her as well and is able to allow me to do so. For her to think she has to cook dinner as well as clean the dishes afterward has been a daily struggle for us as I argue that she needs to allow me to help. Though she is slowly acclimating to my assistance I think she is liking the partnership.

We spent our remaining few days watching TV, sleeping, playing video games, talking and laughing. Leaving for the plane was harder than I could have ever planned for as the desire to stay safe and comfortable here in her presence tried again and again to trump my desire to travel the country and find myself. I left with a heavy heart but confident in the knowledge that I would be stronger upon my return.

How people change - April 5-8

It is interesting to witness the endless cycle that is time, the transition from childhood to adulthood is inevitable and the struggles created during these times of change is felt by everyone at some point, no matter place in life.

Looking back on my life I have noticed that years have become intertwined in memory and in this melding of days and months time has slowed, causing me a disconnect between reality and recollection. The friends I remember have become different people, adjusting to a new life, new responsibilities and new and larger expectations. What was once concern over place in high school pecking order now is concern over holding down a job; the concern over how to pay for a beer has become concern over how to cover a mortgage.

While there is a price to pay for living in San Diego's oceanic climate the monetary struggle created from houses so exorbitantly priced is offset by the physical and mental gains of a perpetual sun, and it is under these sunny skies of Southern California that three of my good High School friends, Tim and his wife Kyle, as well as Dan, have made their homes.

Tim was one of my basketball buddies - though, truth be told, he was more the guy who swatted me time and time again as I struggled to play a sport that emphasized hands over feet - and a good friend since our freshman year and Kyle was a transfer to Bishop Blanchet from West Seattle her senior year, a transition made easier by her looks and athleticism as she was the girl that caused more than one head to turn within our tight knit group. I have known Dan since middle school and his gregarious personality is much better suited to the sunny skies of San Diego than the gray ones of Seattle and his sales ability has made the transition an easy one.

As I drove south along the highways into San Diego, memories of summer soccer tournaments flooded my mind and I realized that even though Tim and Kyle had called this bastion of beauty home for close to a decade, I had only visited them when saddled with the care of 18 high school aged soccer players. I realized that I had never taken the time to understand and see why people paid so much to call San Diego home or why Dan choose to move down 5 years earlier.

Exiting off of the 8 into their neighborhood I was greeted with rows of small local businesses that fronted the main drive. A turn left led me down a lane of iconic little houses, all immaculately gardened and landscaped. Tim and Kyle's home was a beautiful tan stucco house nestled in amongst the trees and flowers, its feigned fortress roofing feeling more homey that guarded. The house's Mexican styling, swirls etched deep into the stucco, provide a distinctive flair yet suited the neighborhood well.

It turns out that Tim and Kyle's acceptance into the neighborhood was swift as their beautiful home was adorned for 30 years with cheap vinyl siding more suited for cookie cutter suburban neighborhoods than here in Kensington. Their decision to tear it off upon moving in elicited a ruckus of cheers from the entire neighborhood and endeared them to the locals.

The timing of my visit was poor since Tim and Kyle were already hosting Tim's mom and sister, in town to see the couple's first born, a beautifully chubby one year old named Ciarra. Thankfully Bessie provided a comfortable bed and my hosts and their company were gracious, making me feel like a part of the family by including me in all of the family outings and allowing me - perhaps mandating - to shower and share in the cooking duties.

I was impressed to see the level of landscaping throughout the entire neighborhood, every home was well kept. Though the seemingly requisite Mexican gardeners came by weekly, it turns out Tim and Kyle's garden was immaculate thanks to the gusto of Tim, an odd personality quirk I thought, as flowers were usually things he forgot about, even when needed for a high school dance.

Changes in personality are one of the biggest surprises in life, the biggest perhaps is watching how new parents interact and respond to their children and embrace the roles that are necessitated from taking care of a life one has created. Tim was never thought of as one who craved fatherhood, his tough guy exterior was always visible, but, as it turns out with many tough guys, give him a child and you will find a teddy bear, great with kids and house work alike. Kyle was perhaps the catharsis for parenthood, her motherly instincts always came out any time all of us would get drunk together and any of us needed taking care of.

I know Kyle, a 6' ex-University of Idaho volleyball player, will be happy with whatever sport Ciarra chooses but 6' 2" Tim worries every time he witnesses Ciarra dancing to the repetitive music so loved by one year olds and so often lamented by parents that basketball is in her near future as she pivots really well on her right leg. Though he loves watching basketball, the thought of sitting on the sidelines watching a girls game distresses him as he fears that a slower pace and his own inability to keep his mouth shut will bring out his desire to live vicariously.

Dan was always thought of as the domestic type; his cooking abilities were showcased early, the pinnacle for me being the watermelon he carved into a fruit basket. He brought his three year old son, a half Mexican and half American combination that gives high fives on command over to Tim and Kyle's house for introductions. Dan's biggest lamentation is that his son doesn't look a thing like him as his Mexican heritage is readily apparent, but he misses that his son's body type and body language creates a mini Dan, albeit one with black hair.

Being around friends again was truly a blessing; to see these guys and their families, how much they have grown and changed, yet remained true to themselves and their ideals, reminded me how important it is to stay connected. Connection is something I have lost somewhere along the way over the past few years and is something I am hoping to find again in my travels. The reminder of San Diego helps to bridge the gap.